


The Nashville Switch

by ThePause



Category: Glee
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-25
Updated: 2018-06-21
Packaged: 2019-03-23 22:32:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13797711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePause/pseuds/ThePause
Summary: Kurt is at Rachel's annual Start of Summer party when he meets a mysterious stranger whose only goal seems to be making out with Kurt. But a week later, at his dad's Nashville record label, Kurt finds out the stranger from the party is a lot more than he bargained for.





	1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

It's a heady thing, standing in a tiny, cramped alcove with another boy's lips so close my vision is blurring trying to look at them. It's stuffy in here and there's barely three inches of space between us and I don't know what to do with my hands. As it is there's only two thin layers of damp swimsuit material standing between us. I'm one ill-timed boner away from permanent humiliation. 

"I'm gonna count to three," he says, his voice raspy and sexy and trouble-making in the way that watching an R-rated movie with your grandma is trouble-making, "and then I'm gonna kiss you."

"What!" It blurts out of me, all high-voiced and screechy, like I've never been kissed by a boy in a tiny, cramped alcove. Full disclosure: I haven't.

"One."

He moves closer and I jump like a scared rabbit. I'm totally irresistible. Obviously. Boys will be lining up outside the alcove to take a crack at these amateur lips. "I don't even know your name."

"Two."

He puts his hot hands (both temperature hot and sexy hot - a winning combination) on the waistband of my swim trunks and his thumbs brush against my skin. His mouth is so close to mine our noses touch. He must be standing on his tiptoes.

"Three."

I first noticed him in Rachel's outdoor kitchen. Rachel's got one of those insane mega-mansions that are peppered all around Nashville complete with massive pool and hot tub, outdoor kitchen, pool house big enough to house a family of four…you get the picture. He was trying to get ice from the refrigerator door. He kept pushing the button for cubed ice and when only crushed ice came out his lips screwed up into the cutest little jagged line. He's the most beautiful boy I've ever seen in real life and that's saying something because I've met Zac Efron in person. Twice.

"The cubed ice function is busted," I said, leaning against the fridge trying to look cool while hoping I didn't look like I was trying to look cool. 

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. Crushed only."

He peered up at me through a tangle of eyelashes so thick they weighed down his eyelids in that sexy/sleepy kinda way, so thick he blinked in slow-mo.

"I don't like crush ice. It always falls down in clumps and lands on your face and goes up your nose."

"Totally."

"Yeah."

The whole thing started earlier, even before the fascinating ice cube discussion. He'd been circling the party all night, leaning on things and generally looking gorgeous. I usually know everyone at Rachel's SOS parties so it surprised me to see A) a stranger and B) a stranger so hot I feared my body hair would catch on fire.

When I finally worked up the nerve to talk to him about ice cubes, Rachel pulled me away to play chicken in the pool. I lost track of him after that (like I said, big house) and was standing by the rock wall waterfall with Rachel when I spotted him. 

"Who are you staring at," she said, trying to figure out where my eyes were glued.

"No one. I'm not staring."

But I so was. I was supposed to be listening to Rachel talk about how Finn Hudson showed up to the party with Quinn Fabray thus amping up her hot pursuit of Finn Hudson. Instead, I was scanning the party looking for Eyelash Boy. (Seriously, you should see these things. They flutter in the wind.).

Rachel smacked a mosquito that landed on my arm. "You're not even listening to me."

"I'm totally listening to you."

"Then what did I just say?"

"You said your destiny, Finn Hudson, will rue the day he dissed you for someone so basic as Quinn Fabray and who cares anyway because it's summer and then junior year and you'll be so amazing at every assigned task that Teen Vogue will write an article about you and you'll skip senior year because you're on a PR tour telling the masses about the benefits of being so young and so brilliant."

"I'm being serious."

I gasped and threw my hand across my heart. "You don't think you're are young, genius ingenue ready to take over the world? At least you won't be slinging pad thai at the Smiling Elephant for every hipster in Berry Hill."

"Kurt."

"Rachel."

"Why does this always happen to me?"

"Hold that thought, I gotta pee. I'll be right back and we will discuss a detailed plan to win back your destiny." 

It was a lie, I didn't have to pee. I had to go look for him, my Eyelash Prince. Rachel's house is massive but not so much that a tiny, gorgeous boy would go missing. I was walking back over to the outdoor kitchen where I first saw him when a crush of soon-to-be freshman girls pushed me into the alcove between the kitchen and the path down to the backyard fire pit. The very same alcove where he was standing. Is standing. Where he is currently counting down to kiss me.

"Sorry," I squeaked out.

"What is this thing anyway," he said, looking up and around, trying to figure out the point of an outdoor alcove. He didn't seem to notice that we were both wedged in so tight it would take a Costco-sized can of WD-40 to de-wedge us.

"I think it's an alcove."

"An alcove?" His right eyebrow arched so high I wanted to laugh but doing so would cause my nakedness to touch his nakedness. I've never been the kind of guy to shy away from a shirtless pool situation but all this closeness was taxing on my sweat glands. Who walks around a party with no shirt on? What fashion icon decided it was okay for men to be all breast-positive but women have to cover up? It's sexist, if you ask me. We should all be obligated to wear nipple-coverings. Level the playing field.

"Yeah, alcove, like, a decorative space. They're usually for things like bookshelves or a giant vase or something. I'm not sure what this one is for; I've never seen anything in it. It's just always been here, empty. Well, I guess until now. Who knew two people could fit in here? Not me." I said all of this because I get chatty when I'm nervous. And I was very nervous.

He smiled, a slow upturn of the corners of his mouth, like I said the exact thing he was hoping I would say. Like he rubbed a magic lamp and a genie popped out (the genie is me in this metaphor) and fulfilled his one and only wish. That's the kind of grin he was grinning at me.

He ran the tip of his finger down my left forearm and stopped at my wrist. Every neuron in my body shot sparks through the pours of my skin. Does the body have neurons? Is this a thing? Note: Must pay more attention in Biology

"Do you come here often?"

Yes, that is literally what he said. He's probably one of those overly confident douche-nozzles who thinks they can just deliver a ridiculous line like do you come here often and dudes everywhere will drop their panties, so to speak. Boys this ridiculously attractive can get away with saying ridiculous things. The problem is, it totally worked on me. 

"What, you mean like this alcove? Or this house? This party? The answer to all three is yes. Rachel's been having the SOS party since we were like, six."

"What's SOS?" 

"Start of summer. You know, end of school and all that. It's a tradition." 

"Rachel. Is that your girlfriend?" He said this as his fingertip rubbed circles into my wrist. I wanted to laugh but again, our bare chests were so close his chest hair was touching my skin which made me wonder if I liked dudes with chest hair and if I didn't maybe he could shave it off or something even though I've read the stubble can be hell.

"One of her dads is big time friends with my dad and we've known each other since we were zygotes. Our friendship was inevitable. As much as a more-than-friends relationship is the fervent and committed prayer of both of our parents, no, she is not my girlfriend. I am decidedly playing for the other team." 

"And what team might that be?" he asked with a smirk that could medal in the Olympics. He was doing it again. The douche-nozzle grin that was both annoying and leveling me to my grave. The only way he couldn't hear my actual heartbeat was if he'd suffered from temporary hearing loss due to the insanely loud country music blaring from strategically placed Bose speakers around the pool.

"The one that hates this music."

His fingertip stopped circling. "You don't like country music?"

"I know, it's like a sin to live in Nashville and hate country music. To make matters worse, my dad is super in the scene and fully expects me to follow in his footsteps."

He looked up at me through his eyelash forest. "I'm gonna count to three."

It's hot. The muggy night air and our mingling breath has raised the air temperature in the alcove one million degrees. A bead of sweat rolls down my neck. I open my mouth to say something else, unable to shut-up for even a millisecond, but then his lips are on my lips. His hand is on my jaw and his other hand is on my bicep. Our bare chests are for sure touching and he smells like nachos and oh God. 

Oh. 

My God.

Can a kiss reformat your brain? I haven't kissed many guys, okay I've kissed two guys, but this guy…this guy. 

We break apart and I say, "I'm Kurt," needing to ground myself in something real.

"You're cute," he says, and then he's kissing me again, with purpose. There's hands and full body leaning and skin on skin and this is going to be the best….summer…EVER.

The alcove feels exposed and it's also five million degrees being crammed in here so I suggest a new location.

"Hey, you wanna go hang out in the basement?"

"The basement?" 

"Not to like, get too crazy or anything, just to get out of this alcove. I mean, if you wanted to get crazy I might be okay with it. I mean, whatever." I am not okay with it.

He grins that genie-lamp grin and unsticks himself from me, sliding out onto the stone pathway up to the house. I go and stand next to him, already feeling cooler and the tiniest bit more clear headed.

"It's this way," I say, leading him up the pathway.

It feels weird to walk beside him after we just totally made out like two hornball dudes who've only ever had a conversation about ice cubes and alcoves. I also get a true sense of how much shorter he is then me.

As we're walking I'm noticing he's not saying anything. I mean, I'm not either but isn't he the one who instigated this whole ordeal? Or did I instigate it with all my leering and suggestive ice talk?

"There's another fridge in the basement. You could get some cubed ice."

He laughs, like I'm super charming which, I'm not. We walk underneath the deck and I open the basement door and flip on the light switch. He reaches across me and turns it off. And then  
it  
is  
on.

I'd like to tell you we're talking, learning about each other, exchanging intellectual quips about the state of the world economy, but we are just full on making out. I have never in my life imagined kissing someone, and being kissed by someone, this thoroughly. I may not know his name but I have an intimate knowledge of the inside of his mouth. 

We make our way to the sectional couch covered in a hideous floral print and end up horizontal. I worry things might get spicier than I'm ready for, but he maintains a healthy, hands-above-the-equator situation. And I am living for every second of it.


	2. Chapter 2

I wake up to Rachel sitting on me.

"Get. Up. Right. Now." She's bouncing up and down on my chest with each word.

"I can't breathe with your bony ass jammed into my ribcage! And I was sleeping!"

"Uh-huh. With whom, may I ask?"

"Oh my God, I didn't SLEEP sleep with him. Wait," I say, looking around the basement, "where is he?"

"I don't know. I came down here to check on you, deathly afraid I was going to see the best friend peen and I definitely do not want to see the best friend peen."

"Ew." I shivered at the thought.

"But here you are, only half-naked and asleep on my hideous floral sectional."

I get up and stretch my arms over my head. There's a kink in my neck and dried drool on my face. I don't even want to know what my hair looks like.

"Seriously, where is he?"

"Seriously, I don't know," Rachel huffs. "Everyone else left at a reasonable hour. You two lovebirds were the only curfew breakers. I came down here around 12:30 and you looked like you were trying to climb directly into his mouth, so I went to bed."

I smirk and go to the bathroom to look at my hair (and pee while I'm in there cause, man, I really gotta pee) and it is a disheveled mess incapable of repair. 

"Where is he?" I shout from the bathroom, wishing I had a shirt on.

"WHO is he?" Rachel shouts back.

I pop my head around the bathroom door. "You don't know?"

"YOU don't know?" Rachel screeches, like I've just said the Dear Evan Hansen original cast recording is only so-so.

"Excuse me, are you suggesting I made out all night with a complete stranger?"

She puts her hands on her hips and cocks her head to the side. "What's his name?"

"Look, what's important is that we find him. Where's my phone?" I can't even remember the last place I put it.

"Kurt Hummel, you hussy. You made out all night with a boy whose name you do not know?"

"It was YOUR party shouldn't YOU be the one to know the NAMES of those ATTENDING!" Now we're both screeching.

"Okay, okay, calm down. Tell me what happened."

I plop down on the sectional and sigh. "We made out. A lot. Like, a lot."

"That much I know. Then what."

"I guess I fell asleep? I don't know. Oh God, Rachel, I don't know!"

We decide to look for him in case he's hiding somewhere, although that could mean he heard my conversation with Rachel and if that's the case I will have to die. We look in the spare basement bedroom, but he's not there. He's not in the mud room, either. Not in the garage. Not in the game room. Where is he? 

"I have to find him. Is his car here?" I say, stomping up the stairs and heading for the front door.

"You know what he drives but you don't know his name?"

"I meant are there any extra cars here?"

"Sorry, I didn't take car inventory before coming down here to make sure you didn't lose your virtue to Mystery Boy."

"His name is Eyelash Boy, thank you, and I did not lose any such virtue because that is an antiquated notion used by southern women to corral lose daughters into submission."

Rachel gasps so hard I'm afraid she's swallowed her tongue. "You had sex?"

I swirl on her, my eyebrows reaching for the ceiling. "I think the first time I ever have relations with someone I will know both their first and last name."

I pull her outside with me and around to the driveway where my car is parked right where I left it. No other cars. No Eyelash Boy.

My heart sinks. "So, he left? Like, didn't even say good-bye or give me his phone number or anything?"

Rachel's mouth is hanging open, but no sound is coming out.

I suck in every ounce of air around my head and grab her by the shoulders. "Did…did I just have a one-night stand?"

"I think to truly have a one-night stand you have to get slightly more naked."

"Oh my God, he totally played me. I mean, I was happy to go along with it but…how could he just leave like that?"

"Where did he even come from? I've never seen him at school."

"I don't…know? I don't know anything about him. Nothing at all. I'm such an idiot." I yell idiot so loud Rachel's dog-walking neighbor turns to stare.

"You're not an idiot."

"Rachel. I made out with a stranger on your hideous floral sectional. A stranger who then snuck out in the dead of night without even telling me his name. The best night of my teen life is quickly becoming the dark mark of my teen life." I sit down in the middle of the driveway and put my head between my legs. "I need a paper bag to breathe into before I black out."

"You're not gonna black out," she says, pacing and texting. "Someone has to know who he is. We'll find him. We're gonna find him. I'll text Finn."

I whip my head up to glare at her. "Please do not use my personal shame to gain ground with Finn."

She sniffs and turns her nose up at me. "I would never."

She so would.

Rachel proceeds to text every single person (that we actually like) from the party and no one knows anything. A couple people think they remember seeing someone fitting his description: short, gorgeous, eyelashes as long as palm tree branches, but no one knows his name or who he is or where he came from. It's like he's a figment of my imagination. Which is what I say to Rachel three hours later lying face down on her bed.

"Maybe he was a figment of my imagination. I mean, no one could be that gorgeous in real life."

"I've called everyone," Rachel says.

"I could ask my dad to hire a private detective. He used one once when one of his artists at Hummel Records went off the grid and wasn't responding to any form of electronic communication. The P.I. guy found him in a cabin in Gatlinburg whittling wood. He'd totally lost it."

"What would you even tell a private investigator? You don't know anything about him."

I sit up and swing my legs over the side of her bed. "That he was so gorgeous I thought my brain would melt into liquid hot magma and leak out of my ears?"

"I guess. He's not my type. Too short."

"Not your type? Not your TYPE? Rachel, he is The Type. He's Ellen Degeneres's type. He's humanity's type. When you Wikipedia the word 'attractive' there's a picture of this guy and he's winking and giving you finger guns and you don't even care because he's so beautiful it burns your retinas."

"Alright, Mariah. Calm down." Rachel calls me Mariah when she thinks I'm getting hysterical, but honestly, it's a compliment.

"Rachel, when I am 40, I will look back on last night and wonder what happened to the beautiful boy with the eyelashes and exquisite mouth. If you took every Shakespearean sonnet ever written and put them in a blender and drank the resulting word pulp you still would never possess the words to describe his mouth."

"Oh, my Goooooood." 

Rachel is so done with me.


	3. Chapter 3

ONE WEEK LATER

 

I should have been at my dad's office ten minutes ago, but I have to get coffee or I will wilt like a magnolia bloom in a late July sun. Rachel and I never did figure out who Eyelash Boy was or how he ended up at the party. What a tragic story. Me, a fabulous young gay, abandoned by the potential love of my life before I could even learn this name. I should write a musical about it. I'd play the part of me, obviously. 

I push open the door to Crema and wave to Phil, my favorite barista. He's too old for me but super cute and what's the harm in flirting?

"Morning, Kurt. Your usual?"

"Yes, please. To go," I say, smiling and blinking my eyes just enough to be coy and cute but not enough to look like my contacts are itching. I pay for my drink and wait, watching Phil work his caffeine magic. He sets my coffee onto the counter, his hand still around the to-go cup.

"Here you go, Kurt." I wrap my hand around his as he simultaneously slips his out. "See you tomorrow?"

"If you're lucky." I wink and sashay out with as much sass as I can muster, throwing him a smile over my shoulder as I push open the door. I'm happy to see he's still watching me. 

When I get to Hummel Records, Dad's country record label and the bane of my existence, I'm officially 20 minutes late. The company is Dad's baby and something he hoped (and still hopes) I would be just as into as he is, but I can't do it. I love music and performing, but as much as I've tried, country music just doesn't do it for me. He asked me yesterday if I would intern for him over the summer, probably in hopes it will change my mind about the business. I only agreed because he promised me a new car. I've been eyeing the new Audi A5 for months. 

I push open the heavy glass doors to the front lobby of Hummel Records and run into my favorite employee, Gem, who's getting onto the elevator with coffee for Horrible Hellen, Director of Marketing and Bitchiness.

"Hold the elevator!" I shout, running through the lobby.

"Your dad is looking for you," she huffs, looking at me over the top of heavy frames that are clearly plastic. "He said he's been texting you all morning."

"It's true. He has." He's probably afraid I wouldn't show up, even though I promised I would. "Nice frames. Were you suddenly stricken with astigmatism?"

She flips me off and pushes the buttons for the third and fourth floors.

"Lunch?"

"Can't. Dad's got me scheduled all day with some new artist."

Gem gets off on the third floor, wiggling her fingers in a good-bye, and I go up to Dad's office on the fourth floor. When I walk into his office suite, his assistant, Melba, is filing her nails with a long, silver nail file. She's been my dad's assistant since before I was born but I've never seen her do any work, ever.

"He's out on the terrace with Boxer." She purses her lips and smirks. "He's been waiting for you."

I consider leaving. If there's one person on planet earth I do not want to see, it's Pat Boxer. He's artist manager to the stars and the absolute evilest, vilest, most foul-breathed man I've ever come in contact with. I may be seventeen, but I've met my fair share of Nashville players and he is the #1 worst.

I salute Melba and walk across to office to the terrace door making up an excuse for being late and thinking of how to avoid Boxer's verbal jabs. Before I can open the door, my entire body folds in on itself. Because Boxer and my dad are standing on the terrace. With Eyelash Boy. I'd know those eyelashes anywhere. And those lips, God, his lips. My cheeks heat up just thinking about it.

But why is Eyelash Boy here? With Dad and Boxer? On the terrace?

I know I have to move, have to open the door, but my hand is frozen on the handle. Before I can force myself to re-animate, Dad turns around and sees me, motioning for me to join them. I pull on the door.

"Kurt, there you are," he says, with a look that lets me know he's super pissed I'm late. "You know Boxer, right?" I do my best attempt at a cordial smile, but it comes out as a strained grimace. "And I want to introduce you to our newest signing, Blaine Anderson."

The newly christened Blaine Anderson does a little wave of his hand through the air and I push my mouth up into a half-smile.

"Hi…Blaine."

"It's nice to meet you," Blaine says, with a quizzical yet innocent expression. Looks like we're gonna play the I've-never-seen-you-before-and-defnitely-never-touched-your-butt game. 

We both look at my dad who's oblivious to the entire conversation Blaine and I just had with our eyes. Blaine's side of the conversation was more eyelashes than eyes, but still.

"Kurt, Blaine is new to town and will be staying in our artist apartment on 2nd Avenue. We're planning a launch party in a few days and then a radio promo run, but in the meantime, I'd like you to show him around and help him acclimate."

"Acclimate," I say.

"You know," Boxer cuts in, "acclimate, it means-"

"I know what it means," I bark back.

Dad gives me a sharp look and keeps going. "Blaine's got a writing appointment with Harlan Greenway in 10 minutes. Why don't you show him where the writers' rooms are and then take him to lunch. You can use my card."

I take a deep breath in and let it out slowly. "Yeah, sure. I'll take Blaine to lunch." The words feel foreign, like they don't fit inside my mouth.

"Great, thanks Kurt," he says, slapping me on the back. I hate it when he slaps me on the back. "Boxer," Dad says, reaching out to shake Boxer's hand, "looking forward to another great partnership with you."

"Another wild success, you mean," Boxer says, shaking his hand. "The fans are gonna lose their minds for him."

The two men walk back into the office together, congratulating each other on being masters of country music, forgetting Blaine and I are even there. I look over at Blaine who, holy wow, is so gorgeous that looking at him is like standing under a heat lamp. In the light of day, I can better see everything about him. His dark, curly hair that's a bit wild and his hazel eyes that are currently avoiding looking into mine. He's small but defined, like a dancer, with corded muscles inching up his arms and broad, strong shoulders. And then there's his ass, which I currently can't see but definitely remember. He is going to be the death of me.

"So," he says, hands shoved into the pockets of his dark jeans and shrugging like he's the innocent one. But in this Game of Lips, he was the instigator.

"Didn't expect to see you again. Especially here. At my dad's record label." Help me, I'm afflicted with verbal diarrhea for which there is no cure.

He takes his hands out of his pockets and holds them out towards me. "Listen, Kurt, I didn't know who you were, obviously, and we can't…I can't…this can't…"

"Okay, Captain Can't, I hear you loud and clear. Don't worry. I'm not planning on spilling any details from our little tryst. My Dad would shit bricks if he knew I made out with his new artist."

We both fold our arms across our chests, neither of us looking directly at the other. I mean, I'm sneaking glances but not where he can see.

Blaine kicks a patio chair with his shoe. "You could've told me your dad was Burt Hummel."

"When? In the 39 seconds your tongue wasn't in my mouth?"

"It wasn't like that."

"It very much WAS like that and it was very awesome like that. But don't worry, I won't tell on you for diddling the CEO's son."

"We did NOT diddle. Diddling is sex and we did not have sex." He still won't look at me, seemingly fascinated with the concrete patio floor.

"Fine, I won't tell him you canoodled his son so hard he saw spots for 48 hours."

"We didn't canoodle."

"Oh, God, what do you think we did?"

Blaine lets out an exasperated sigh. "We kissed. With some heavy petting."

"Heavy petting? For real? You make it sound like I should scratch you behind the ears and call you a good boy."

Blaine lifts his face to look at me, his eyes pleading. "He can't know. I'm serious. This is my big break and me being gay won't play well if I'm…overt about it."

I roll my eyes so hard I strain an optic nerve. "Let me guess. Boxer told you that?"

He raises his eyebrows and I notice they make perfect triangles over his eyes. "It's true, isn't it?"

"What are you doing with him anyway? He is the worst man I've ever encountered in all of Nashville."

"But he's the best at managing artists, right? I'm lucky he wants to work with me. I'm not going to do anything to screw it up."

More awkward silence. More avoiding each other's eyes. 

"I can't believe you didn't tell me you're an artist."

"Tongue in mouth, remember?"

My cheeks burn and I feel a traitorous stirring in my artfully disheveled jeans. "Yeah, I remember."

It's quiet and neither of us know what to say next. Because he's right, as much as I might want it to, this can never happen. My dad would flip his shit and Boxer would…I can't even.


	4. Chapter 4

After Blaine's writing appointment, we walk over to Puckett's for lunch. It's not the cutest choice, but it's very Nashville and I feel like that's what I'm supposed to be doing, giving him the Nashville experience. And if this lunch goes how I think it's gonna go, I'll need to drown myself in biscuits and sweet tea, figure be damned. Blaine doesn't say anything on the walk over, but our hands brush once, his pinky bumping into mine, lighting up my traitorous skin like a firefly when the sun's going down. He's wearing dark skinny jeans and a white v-neck t-shirt with black, hi-top Chucks. He's so slouchy chic it's making my knees quiver. I wish he didn't have this hold over me, wish I could flip my hair and walk away. 

It's high noon when we make it to Puckett's and the front entryway is jammed with downtowners and tourists in shiny new boots and cowboy hats. I wiggle my way to the front and wave to Sheri the hostess. She winks, motioning us over to a cramped table for two next to the window. Blaine follows me and we both take a seat.

"It's a madhouse in here. Thanks for getting us a table," I say.

Sheri grins. "Anything for you, Kurt."

Her niceness likely stems from her much-talked-about wish to get a record deal with my dad, but I'll take it. Blaine picks up his menu and acts totally engrossed in the description for the Redneck Burrito. I know I'm going to have to be the one to talk about it, but I wish he would at least look at me.

"Blaine, we have to talk," I say, doing my best to school my face into something neutral and not, as Rachel would say, a pretentious bitch queen.

He doesn't look up from his menu. "Talk about what?" His downturned eyes make his eyelashes fan across his cheeks and good lord is it hot in here? I pull at the collar of my pink polo.

My head falls to the side, my ear nearly touching my shoulder. "Blaine."

He looks up at me then, the sunlight streaming through the window illuminating his hazel eyes framed by those darn eyelashes. I should suggest he wear dark sunglasses. All the time. "There's nothing to talk about."

I laugh, going for sarcastic but it comes out more like a snort. "So that's it? You just…don't care about what happened between us? We spent a considerable amount of time together, but this is the first time I've seen you with a shirt on."

His eyes are like angry laser beams. "I can't," he whispers in an angry tone, looking around like someone might hear us. 

I feel like I'm sitting across from a stranger. I don't see any part of the hot guy who seduced me in an alcove. That guy was flirty and fun and so exciting it made my teeth ache. This guy is a stone wall, all that spark muted to a dull grey.

"God, it's not like I'm not proposing marriage. I'm just saying, you know, something definitely happened between us and we should talk about it. We'll obviously be seeing more of each other now that you're an artist at my dad's label."

He huffs. "Every time you say that you make it sound like I did this on purpose. I already told you, I didn't know who you were when…the other night."

"Oh, I get it. You thought I was just some innocent boy willing to fulfill your horny gay fantasy before embarking on your big career where you play straight."

He slams his menu down on the table and leans forward. "That's not what I'm doing."

"Then what are you doing?"

A server appears to take our orders, chatting happily about the day's specials, never noticing the obvious tension radiating from our pinched faces and hunched shoulders. Blaine turns on the charm as soon as the server asks for our orders, smiling and batting his eyelashes, the same damn thing that so utterly woo'ed me. Now it just makes me want to smack him. 

I order a fried green tomato BLT and Blaine orders a black bean burger. Once the server is out of earshot, Blaine's angry eyes return.

"So, what, you expect me to risk everything I've worked for just to be boyfriends? We had fun, sure, but it wasn't anything worth throwing away my chance."

"I'm not suggesting that."

"Then what are you suggesting?"

I don't know how to answer him. A week ago, I thought he could be the love of my life. Now, he seems closed-off and selfish and not anything like the guy I made out with all night on Rachel's hideous floral sectional. I stare out the window and do my best to ignore him. As the minutes tick by, I feel more and more embarrassed about what happened between us. How could I have let my guard down so easily? Lesson learned. I will never again be hypnotized by long eyelashes and talk of cubed ice.

Half of Blaine's burger is gone before he says anything. And when he does, it's so quiet I almost miss it. "It did mean something."

I set my fork down on my plate and put my hands in my lap. My heart is making a break for it, thumping so hard it's rattling my chest cavity. "But you left. You disappeared."

He takes a deep breath. "That night, Kurt, I just…" His voice drops off and he looks around the restaurant at everyone but me. He takes another breath and lets it out slowly. "I had such a great time with you, obviously. It was amazing. But when I woke up on the couch, I panicked. I knew everything at the label was about to launch and I just…I was scared of messing it up. You know how Boxer can be."

"I felt like you were a figment of my imagination," I say.

"I'm sorry, Kurt. I never meant for any of this to happen."

I want to believe him. I want to scream at him. I want to launch myself over the table and kiss him until both our lips are numb. God, I have to calm down. I have to be rational, my least favorite thing.

"That night, you came on so strong. It's hard for me to believe you got scared."

"I've never done anything like that before, trust me. I don't really know what happened. I just…I wanted you."

I blush all the way to my perfectly styled hairline. I keep telling myself not to fall for his sugary words, that today he's shown me his true colors. The S.O.S. party feels like a hundred years ago. I need to get over it.

"What do we do now?"

He picks up his burger and takes a bite, taking his time to chew and think. "There's nothing we can do. I have to focus on my career. I don't have room for anything else."

My chest deflates. I know he's right. Between Boxer and my dad, there's no way we can be together. But it would be nice if he acted even a little bit sad about it. I pull out my phone and text Rachel right in front of him.

To Rachel: Guess who I'm at lunch with right now?

To Kurt: ??

I snap a photo of Blaine mid-chew. He shoots me a look and I glare at him as I send it to Rachel.

To Kurt: KURT HUMMELL ARE YOU SERIOUS RIGHT NOW????

To Rachel: Terribly. But it's not what you think. He's the new artist at my dad's label and I've been assigned to handhold him around town. Nightmare! And he wants nothing to do with me. Double nightmare!

To Kurt: You're saying he's not trying to jump your bones?

To Rachel: Hardly. He's insipid. 

To Kurt: Sounds like he's a Grade-A Idiot

"Who're you texting?" Blaine asks, eyes squinted at me.

I don't answer him, raising the phone in front of my face.


	5. Chapter 5

Every time Dad signs a new artist, he has a big meeting in the main conference room to introduce them to the label. As intern, it's been my job to do all the errand-running no one else wants to do, which is why I'm at Shindigs and Celebrations picking up two ridiculous balloon bouquets to put on either side of the conference room doors. I told Horrible Hellen balloons were totally gauche, but she snapped her fingers in my face and told me to get going. Let me just say, cramming 48 giant balloons into the back of a Honda CR-V is no picnic. 

When I get to the label in my cloud of balloons, Horrible Hellen inhales so sharply I think she'll suck a balloon down her throat. 

"Kurt, these ribbons are all tangled! How could you let them get tangled! GEM!!!" Gem obediently trots over. "You two get these balloons untangled and positioned by the doors. You've got eight minutes."

HH stalks away and I roll my eyes at Gem. "I'd love to see her shove 48 helium-filled balloons into a mid-size hatchback and not get the ribbons tangled."

Gem laughs and helps me unknot the mess. "So, have you seen the new artist, Blaine? He's a little hottie."

"I, uhhh." I can't decide how much to tell her. I love Gem, but she has a big mouth. I can't risk the entire radio team knowing about my rendezvous with their new artist. "Yeah, I met him the other day and Dad had me take him to lunch."

She wiggles her eyebrows at me. "I'd like to take him to lunch if you know what I mean. I mean, you know, take him to lunch." She draws out the word lunch in a horrifying way that I think is meant to be sexy but instead sounds like she's experiencing gastrointestinal distress.

We untangle the balloons in seven minutes, just enough time to stand at the entrance and greet people coming in. I keep an eye out for Blaine, not sure how I feel about seeing him again. We parted ways the other day on semi-friendly terms, both acknowledging a mutual attraction but knowing that was as far as it could go. Rachel side-eyed me when I told her I was over it and honestly, she's right. I don't know if I can ever truly be over it. But I have to be. 

The elevator doors slide open and Boxer steps off with Blaine trailing behind him. The second his face comes into view my knees turn to jelly. Blaine sees me and smiles. It's not a smile from lunch at Puckett's, it's a smile from Rachel's party, when he was Sexy Mystery Boy and this entire thing is totally not fair. He can't pull the Sexy Mystery Boy smile and expect me to do anything less than jump his actual bones in front of the entire staff. 

I lose touch with reality for a minute until Gem shakes me lucid. Dad is calling everyone's attention to the front of the room where Blaine is next to him, strapping on a guitar and oh, my God. In all the hoopla that's been going on since I found out he signed to Hummel Records, I never considered watching him perform would be something I would have to do. Dad goes through the typical set-up, talking about how he met Blaine and how he's the future of the label, blah blah blah. Everyone in the room is focused, listening to their boss talk about the new project, the new artist, being professional and mature, while I'm pitting out my Cuban-collared Michael Kors like a nervous teenager meeting their crush. I'm delivering an intense motivational speech to myself about boundaries when Blaine strums his guitar and says hi to everyone in an aww shucks shrug that makes even Horrible Hellen swoon.

"Hi, guys. I'm Blaine. I'm psyched to be here and to work with you guys on these songs. I hope you like them."

And then. Blaine starts to sing.

I thought I was in trouble before, when all I had to worry about was his dumb face and his stupid hair and his ridiculous little bottom. But his voice, holy hell his voice! It's liquid sex, a smooth tenor that causes instant boners in all who hear it. I look around the room and see that I'm not the only one experiencing the sexual awakening that is Blaine Anderson's voice. Everyone's a little flushed, mouths parted in subtle ecstasy. Thank God I'm wearing a long tunic today that hides my growing wardrobe malfunction. I'm standing in the back of the room, directly in Blaine's line of vision, the worst place I could be. There's an empty chair over in the corner and I move to sit down, both to conceal my lower region's zeal and to avoid Blaine's heavy-lidded gaze. The way he licks his lips. The way his fingers curve around the neck of the guitar and strum the guitar strings. It's like watching porn in public.

I pull out my phone to scan Instagram, anything to give my eyes something to look at other than the shape of Blaine's mouth when he says the word "you." I don't know how much time's gone by when Gem nudges me, whispering, "I can't believe you get to go out with him."

"What?"

"On the promo tour."

"What are you talking about?"

"Kurt, were you not paying attention at all? Burt just announced that Blaine's going on a two-week promo run and you're going with him to handle social media."

Before I have time to process what Gem just said, Horrible Hellen comes over holding a blue folder and shoves it in my face. "Here's everything you'll need. I'll also email you a file of key things to cover and all the necessary passwords. The main thing you'll need to cover is the Win-A-Date promotion."

My throat closes. "Win-A-Date?"

HH sighs, "Did no one go over this with you?" I shake my head. "At each radio stop, we'll be promoting a Win-A-Date contest for Blaine. You'll be in charge of hyping it on all the socials. It's all in the folder. 

I look down at the blue folder in my hands. There's a sticker on the front that reads BLAINE ANDERSON PROMO RUN in big, block letters. 

Apparently, I'm going out on a promo run. With Blaine. To promote someone else going on a date with him. What could possibly go wrong?


	6. Chapter 6

I drive into the bus lot at exactly 11:58pm. Bus call was at 11:45pm and we’re supposed to roll at midnight. I figured the less time for awkward interaction, the better. I park in the gravel lot behind the buses and find the Hummel tour bus. Dad bought it a few years ago for such an occasion as this – a new artist who doesn’t yet have his own bus but needs to appear like he does when rolling into a promo stop. As far as tour buses go, it’s decent. The exterior is a deep burgundy and has a pull-out feature that extends the front lounge when parked. 

I stash my red hard-case in the open bay underneath, wave hello to Hank the bus driver, enter the lock code on the key pad and swing open the heavy door, hoping and praying I’m here before Blaine. But I’m not. He’s sitting on the couch in the front lounge, drinking a lime La Croix with his hand buried in a giant bag of peanut M&Ms. We stare at each other for a second before Gentry, the radio promoter, walks into the lounge from the back. 

“Hey, Kurt. Have you met Blaine?”

I glance back at Blaine who’s just shoveled a handful of M&Ms into his mouth, totally the wrong way to eat M&Ms.

“Yes, we’re familiar.”

“Cool. You can take any bunk that’s empty. Jess is already asleep to don’t make a lot of noise.”

Jess is the label’s publicist and values sleep the way I value discount Gucci.

I know from reading through HH’s folder that the bus will mostly be empty with only Blaine, myself, Jess and Gentry the only crew on this nightmare trip. Boxer is coming out to a few of the dates, but won’t be traveling with us the whole time, a relief. 

I walk past Blaine and Gentry and slide open the slim door to the bunk area. I can see in the low lights there’s stuff in both the middle bunks on the left side and a curtain pulled closed on the bottom bunk on the right. I shrug off my backpack and toss it into the middle bunk on the right. Last year I went out on a weekend run with Dad and one of his bands and got stuck in a top bunk, something no one chooses. Sleeping in the top bunk is like sleeping inside the giant pirate ship at Six Flags, a constant swopping rocking motion that makes you wish for the sweet release of death.

I consider getting into my bunk and going to sleep. I’m wearing black sweatpants (slimming ones, natch) and a grey, pinstriped hoodie due to constant bus chill. I brushed my teeth and did my skincare ritual right before I left the house. But, I can’t hide out forever. If I’m going to be on this trip, I have to figure out a way to get along with Blaine.

Out in the front lounge, Thor: Ragnarok is playing on the giant flat screen behind the driver’s side wall. Thor’s hanging upside-down in a chain talking to some kind of fire creature thing. I sit down on the couch next to Blaine and pull a handful of M&Ms out of the bag.

“So, you’re into superheroes?” I eat one red M&M.

Blaine side-eyes me and pounds another handful, dropping the candy into his mouth like change into a vending machine. “Everybody’s into Thor.”

I look at the screen and consider. “I mean, Chris Hemsworth is quite the specimen.”

Blaine doesn’t respond. I get up to grab a bottle of water from the fridge. “Gentry? Water?”

“No, thanks. I think I’m gonna hit the hay. Y’all don’t stay up too late. We’ve got a 6am at WAMZ in Louisville. Blaine, you’ll need to be camera ready because we’ll be going straight from the station to local news channel for an interview and two acoustic songs. It’s all in your itinerary.”

“Got it,” Blaine says, saluting Gentry and turning back to the TV.

Hank opens the curtain separating the driver area from the front lounge. “We a bus?”

“Yup,” Gentry says, “there’s just four of us for this trip.”

“Giddyup,” Hank says and shuts the curtain. I sit back down next to Blaine and eat a yellow M&M as the bus lurches forward, taking a wide turn out of the gravel lot and out onto the road. I need to break the ice wall between me and Blaine. I need to say something cool. Something breezy. Something that will make him hate how much he wants me and can’t have me.

“First time traveling on a tour bus?” I say, watching as a fire dragon chases Thor around a fire planet. Blaine doesn’t say anything, so I turn to look at him. He nods.

“Gentry filled me in on the two rules. Rule #1, no #2 on the bus. Rule #2, see Rule #1.” He smiles, but it’s hollow.

“It’s really all you need to know, that and never sleep in the top bunk.”

There’s a lull, both of watching the screen but not really watching the movie. I eat two more M&Ms. “Sorry you had to do this,” Blaine says, “come out on this trip with me.” He’s still not looking at me.

I pull my legs onto the couch and turn my body toward him. “Look, it doesn’t have to be weird, okay. We can be professional. Friendly. We can be friends.”

He breathes out hard through his nose, his eyes focused on the TV. “You want to be friends?”

Hell no, I think. I want to do wild and dirty things with you. I want to shed my innocence and discover all your secret places, all the things that make you shake with desire. I want skin on skin and lips on lips. I want to hole up somewhere no one can find us and be permanently naked. “I don’t think we have another option,” I say, shrugging.

We’re sitting close on the couch, the bag of M&Ms between us. He’s wearing a thin white t-shirt and black skinny jeans and I wonder if he’s brought pajamas or at least a pair of sweats. “You planning to sleep in that?”

He gives me a pointed look. “I sleep naked.”

It feels like a challenge, but I refuse to bite. “That’s a bit risky in a bus scenario. What if you have to get up to pee in the night?”

“I guess that’s a risk I’m willing to take.” He takes a long pull from his La Croix and crunches the can into a shriveled mess. He’s looking at me and it’s the look from that night, from the party, the alcove and the basement. It’s a dangerous look for the front lounge of a tour bus when Gentry and Jess are steps away.

Blaine tosses the mangled can into the sink and the bag of candy onto the counter. Before I have time to process what’s happening, he’s on me, on my lap, hands in my hair, tongue in my mouth. It’s so unexpected, so wet-dream hot, I think I’m in my bunk dreaming it. But it’s real, really real, his hardness pressed against mine real.

Oh God, this cannot be happening. I can’t be doing this. But my hands are squeezing his ass and I’m breathing hard into his ear while his lips trail down my jaw. Blaine shifts in my lap sending a hot lick of pleasure up my spine. We both whine, our hands gripping each other harder, desperate. It’s illicit and primal. His lips are wet and everywhere and I try to keep up, kissing and kissing him. He reaches down to the waistband of my sweatpants when the bus pitches sideways, throwing Blaine off my lap and onto the couch.

It’s a slap back into reality. We are on a bus, my dad’s bus, on a promo trip for Blaine the hot new artist. 

“We should,” I stop to catch my breath, “we should probably get some sleep. Early morning.”

I don’t wait for Blaine to say anything, instead jumping off the couch and sliding through the door to my bunk as quick as a flash. I need to pee but the bathroom is in the front lounge and I can’t risk seeing him again. Can’t risk the look on his face. I mean, he kissed me. This is on him, this whole thing. He started it and I told him we had to end it (didn’t I?) and then he attacked me. I am not culpable. 

I’m about to drift off when I hear the door slide open. I peak through my curtain and see him climbing into his bunk right across from me. He’s taken off his white-t-shirt and jeans and is wearing tiny grey briefs that barely cover his ass and holy shit, this boy is going to be the actual end of my short life.


	7. Chapter 7

I wait for what I think is an appropriate amount of time before answering the call of my bladder. As quietly as possible, I slide open my bunk curtain and slink down onto the soft carpeted floor. I keep my feet planted wide. Bus sway is a real and present danger and I don’t want to accidentally sway right into Blaine’s bunk. As slowly as possible, I slide the door open and slip through. 

I’m still reeling from earlier when Blaine launched himself onto my lap. I feel like I should be mad, like I should berate him for breaking all the rules, but really, I just want to go for Round 2. 

But that cannot happen. Cannot. 

Can. 

Not.

I finish up in the tiny bathroom and slip back to my bunk, easing into it as quietly as possible. Instead of backing into the wall, my ass backs up into Blaine, who is laying on his side, grinning at me. 

I jump and nearly fall out and onto the floor. “Shit,” I whisper, “did I get into the wrong bunk?” He probably can’t hear me over the hum of the bus but I’m sure my expression says all he needs to know. 

He wraps a furry, naked leg around my very-much-clothed leg and pulls me closer. The bunk is barely big enough for one and with both of us crammed in here I can pretty much feel every hard plane of his body (emphasis on hard). Realization dawns on me. I’m in the right bunk. He snuck in here to, oh God, why did he sneak in here. We can’t do this. Gentry and Jess are feet away. 

“Blaine,” I say, shaking my head no.

He doesn’t say anything, just smiles and traces my lips with his fingers. He leans in to get his mouth next to my ear. 

“Do you want me to leave?” He squeezes his leg around mine when he says it and, yup, that’s a penis touching my penis through his grey briefs and my sweats and my black boxer briefs. How can I, in any sense of reality, be expected to turn him down when his penis is on my penis? The word penis swirls around in my brain until it’s no longer a word I recognize. 

Penispenispenispenispenispenispenispenispenis.

Obviously, I don’t want the penis touching to stop.

Obviously.

I reach my hand up around his neck and pull him to me, kissing him with as much gusto as the tiny space will allow. He moans into it and I pull away to shush him. 

“We can’t be loud.”

He looks at me with an understanding and reattaches himself to my mouth. It’s enough to send me into the stratosphere but then…..THEN…..he moves his hips. His penis through his grey briefs and my sweats and my black boxer briefs starts rubbing against my penis and I all but scream out in a pleasure I didn’t know existed.

Blaine slaps a hand over my mouth and laughs. He keeps his hand there and continues to move his hips in a circular motion, our dicks doing a sultry dance that raises goosebumps across my entire, previously untouched body. I start to move my hips in time with his and, oh God.

Oh.

God.

Hell.

Shit.

Damn.

Cuss.

“Blaine,” I call out, biting my bottom lip and worrying I’ll combust like a defective firecracker and the bus will catch fire and my dad will kill me, bring me back to life and kill me again.

Blaine leans in and bites my earlobe right as I come, spectacularly, into my boxer briefs. He follows immediately after, or at least, that’s the impression I get from his face and full body shiver. 

“You,” I pant, “and your…you…and now…”

“I know,” he says, snuggling into the crook of my neck, “me too.”


End file.
